The Heptameron (Machen)/Novel 23

In the country of Perigord there was a gentleman who had so great a devotion for St. Francis that he regarded all who wore his dress as holy as the saint himself. And, to his honour, he had appointed rooms in his house for the lodgment of the ​brethren, by whose counsel he ruled all his affairs, even to the smallest, thinking in this manner to make a safe journey through life. And one day it came to pass that his wife, who was both comely, wise, and virtuous, was brought to bed of a fine boy, the which increased much the more the love her husband had for her. And the better to make feast for her, his dear gossip, he had bidden his brother-in-law; and as the hour for supper drew nigh there came to the house a Grey Friar, whose name I will conceal for the honour of the order. At the coming of this his spiritual father, from whom he had no secrets, the gentleman was glad at heart, and, after some talk between his wife, his brother-in-law, and the monk, they set themselves at table for supper. And while they were at supper, the gentleman, looking upon his wife, in whom, indeed, there was enough beauty and grace to make her desired of her husband, began in a loud voice to question the holy father: "Father, is it of a truth a mortal sin in a man to lie with his wife after she has been in childbed?" The father, whose face and words altogether belied his heart, replied with a wrathful countenance: "Without doubt, sir, I esteem such to be one of the greatest sins that can be committed in the estate of marriage. And for what else was the ensample of the Blessed Virgin Mary, who would not enter the temple till the days of her purification were fulfilled, although she stood in no need of purification, but that you should abstain from this small delight? And this you should surely do, seeing that the good Virgin abstained from going to the temple, where was all her joy, to the end that she might obey the law. And besides this, the physicians say that the offspring of such delights stand in great jeopardy." And when the gentleman heard these words he was very sorry, since he had hoped the father would have given him leave; however, he spoke no more on it. The holy man, while he was talking, having had a cup too many, had looked at the dame, thinking within himself that if he was the husband he would not ask the leave of a spiritual father to lie with his wife. And as fire, beginning by little and little, at last sets the whole house aglow, the monk began to burn with such a flame of lust that on a sudden he determined to accomplish that desire he had carried for three years concealed in his heart.

So, supper done, he took the gentleman by the hand, and, ​leading him to the bed of his wife, said to him before her: "Since I see, sir, the great love that is between you and the dame here, which, conjoined to your youth, doth so much torment you, I have compassion, and am minded to declare to you a secret of our holy theology. This is, that the law, which, by reason of the abuses and indiscretion of husbands, is thus rigorous, suffers folk of good conscience like you to take some indulgence. Wherefore, since before your people I uttered the law in its severity, I will now not fail to show you, being a prudent man, its softness also. Know, my son, that there are women and women, just as there are men and men. In the first place, we must know whether your dame here, it being now three weeks since she was brought to bed, is freed from her effluxion of blood?" And the lady replied that she was so. "Then," said the friar, "I give you leave to lie with her, and take no scruple for it, but you must promise me two things: firstly, that you speak to no man of it, but come to her secretly; secondly, that you come not till two hours after midnight, so that the dame's digestion suffer no hindrance through your play with her." All this the gentleman willingly promised, and confirmed his promise with an oath; and the friar, knowing him to be rather a fool than a liar, was altogether assured of him. And after some talk the holy man went to his chamber, giving them good-night and his blessing; but before going he took the gentleman by the hand, saying to him: "Come you likewise, fair sir, and keep not your poor gossip any longer awake." The gentleman kissed his wife, saying to her: "Sweetheart, leave me the door of your room open." And this the friar heard and understood very well, so each one went to his chamber. But as soon as the father was in bed, he thought no whit of sleep or rest, since, when all was quiet, about the appointed hour for saying matins, he crept as softly as he could to the room where the master of the house was expected, and, finding the door open, entered in and put out the candle, and as quickly as he could laid himself down beside her, speaking not a word. The dame, thinking him to be her husband, said: "What? sweetheart, you have ill kept the promise you made our confessor, not to come to me till two o'clock." The friar, more intent on action than contemplation, and fearful lest he might be known, thought chiefly of satisfying the wicked desire ​that for a long while had corrupted his heart, and made her no reply, at which the lady was much astonished. And when he saw the hour draw near in which the husband was to come, he rose from beside the dame, and returned to his room as speedily as might be.

And in like manner as the rage of concupiscence had taken away from him all sleep, so fear, that always follows an evil deed, would now let him take no rest, so he went to the house-porter, and said to him: "My friend, your master has charged me to go forthwith to our monastery, and there offer certain prayers on his behalf; wherefore, prithee, give me my horse and open me the door, so that no one may be advised of it, for this is a necessary occasion and a secret." The porter, knowing well that to obey the friar was to do his master a service, secretly opened him the door and sent him away. At that hour arose the gentleman, and seeing it was time for him to go to his wife, as the holy father had appointed him, got up in his night-gear and went to her, as was his right by the ordinance of God, without any leave of man. And when she heard his voice speaking to her she marvelled greatly, and knowing not what had been done, said to him: "Is this the promise you made to the good father to have a care of your health and mine? And now not only did you come to me before the appointed hour, but return again. I beseech you think of it." The gentleman was so troubled to hear this that he must needs say: "What means this discourse of yours? I know of a truth that for three weeks I have not touched you, and you reprove me for coming to you too often. If you still persist in this you will make me think my company wearisome to you, and will constrain me against my habit and wish to seek in other quarters the pleasure which, by the law of God, I ought to have of you." The lady thinking he was jesting with her, replied: "Beware lest, thinking to deceive me, you be yourself deceived; for notwithstanding that you did not speak when you were with me the first time, I know well enough that you were here." Then the gentleman perceived that they were both of them cozened, and he swore a great oath that he had never come to her. At this the dame was in such sadness, that with tears and lamentations she besought him to make haste and discover who it could be, for in the house there slept only ​her brother and the friar. Forthwith the gentleman, struck with suspicion of the friar, hastened to the chamber where he was lodged and found it empty. And to be more assured whether or no he had fled, he sent for the man who kept the gate and asked him if he knew what was become of the friar, and he told him the whole truth. The gentleman, certain of the friar's wickedness, returned to his wife's room, saying: "Of a surety, sweetheart, he who lay with you and played such pretty pranks is our good father confessor!" The dame, who had always loved her honour, was in such despair at this, that forgetting all humanity and womanly nature, she implored him on her knees to avenge her for this great wrong. Wherefore the gentleman forthwith mounted his horse and rode in pursuit of the friar.

The lady remained alone in her bed, having no counsel or consolation with her save her little child that was lately born. And falling to consideration of the dreadful thing that had come upon her, without making excuse for her ignorance, she esteemed herself as the most blameworthy and wretched of women. And then she, who had learned nothing of the friars save a confidence in good works, satisfaction for sin by austerity of life, fasts and discipline, was altogether ignorant of the grace of God, given to us through the merits of his Son, the remission of sins through his blood, the reconciliation of the Father to us by his death, the life given to sinners only by his goodness and compassion; and found herself so troubled by the enormity and weight of her sin, and the love she bore her husband and the honour of the line, that she not only turned away from the hope that every christian ought to have in God, but even lost all commonsense. So, overcome by grief, driven by despair beyond all knowledge of her God and herself, like a woman enraged and distempered, she took a rope from the bed and with her own hands strangled herself. And still worse, being in the agony of this cruel death, her body, fighting against itself, made such a struggling that she pressed her foot upon the face of the little child, whose innocence could not save him from following in death his wretched mother. But dying, he cried so loudly that a woman who slept in the room rose in great haste and lighted a candle, and saw her mistress hanging strangled by the bed-cord, and the child choked under her feet. So in great affray she ran to ​the room where was lodged the brother of the lady, and led him to see this pitiful sight.

The brother, taking at this such grief as would befall a man who loved his sister with his whole heart, asked the serving-woman who had done this. She told him that she knew not, that no one had entered the room but her master, and he had but lately left it. Whereupon going to his brother's room and finding him not, he was assured that he was guilty, and taking his horse, without asking any more questions, chased after him, and met him on the road as he returned from pursuing the friar, in much grief at not having caught him. As soon as the brother saw the husband approaching, he began crying to him: "Villain and poltroon! have a care for yourself, for this day I trust to be avenged on you through God and my good sword." The gentleman, who would have excused himself, found his brother-in-law's sword so near his body that he had enough to do to defend himself without making inquiry as to the matter in debate. And so many and such fierce blows did they give one another that they became feeble through loss of blood, and were constrained to sit down on the ground facing one another. And whilst they were taking their breath, the gentleman asked his brother-in-law: "What cause, my brother, has turned our great friendship into so fierce a fight?" To which the brother replied: "What cause has moved you to murder my sister, as good a woman as ever breathed? And so evilly, under colour of lying with her, to have strangled her with the bed-cord?" The husband hearing this, more dead than alive, went to his brother and, embracing him, said: "Is it possible that you have found your sister in the case you tell me?" And when his brother assured him that it was so, he said: "I pray you, brother, hear the cause for which I went forth from the house." And he told him all the story of the wicked Grey Friar, at which the brother was much astonished, and more grieved that for no reason he had assailed him. "I have done you wrong," he said, "forgive me." The gentleman replied: "If I had done you a wrong I have my punishment, for I am so deeply wounded that I hope not to escape death." So the brother put him on his horse as well as might be, and led him back to his house, where on the morrow he died, declaring and confessing before all the ​kin of his brother-in-law that he himself was the cause of his own death. But his brother, to make satisfaction to justice, was counselled to go and ask for pardon of King Francis, first of the name. Wherefore having made honourable burial for husband, wife, and child, he went on Good Friday to Court to obtain this pardon, which he got from the hands of Master Francis Olivier, the Chancellor of Alençon, who afterwards, for his excellent endowments, was chosen by the King to be Chancellor of France.

"I believe, ladies, that after having heard this truthful history you will think twice before you lodge such varlets in your houses; and know that the better concealed the poison the more dangerous it is." "Is it not your opinion," said Hircan, "that this husband was an honest simpleton to bring such a gallant to sup with his pretty wife?" "I have known the time," said Geburon, "when there was not a house in the country but had a room hallowed to the use of these holy fathers, but now they are so well known that they are dreaded as common cozeners." "It is my opinion," said Parlamente, "that when a woman is in bed no priest should enter her room except it be for the administration of the sacraments of Holy Church; and when I call one to me, you can judge me to be in great danger of death." "If all were as austere as you," said Ennasuitte, "the poor priests would be worse than excommunicated, being altogether shut out from the sight of women." "Be not afraid on that account," said Saffredent, "they will never fail on that score." "And these are they," said Simontault, "that bind us in the bonds of marriage to our wives, and then strive to burst these bonds by their wickedness, and break the oath we have taken in their presence." "'Tis pity," said Oisille, "that those who administer the sacraments should thus play at tennis with them; they ought to be burned alive." "More wisely would you honour than insult them, and flattering them is better than blaming, for these are they who have power to burn and put to dishonour; wherefore let them be, and give ear to whomsoever Oisille shall give her vote." This said Saffredent, and the company found his opinion right, and leaving the priests alone, entreated Oisille to give her vote to someone, and so change the matter of discourse. "I give it," said she, "to Dagoucin, for I see him to be in such contem​plation as must be the preparing for some good story." "Since I dare not say what I would," answered Dagoucin, "at least I will speak of one to whom cruelty at the first brought hurt, though afterwards it profited him. For though Love doth esteem himself so puissant a warrior that he would fain go stark naked, and can scarce bear to lie concealed, yet ladies, they that obey his counsels and declare themselves too soon, are often brought into an evil case. And the thing so fell out with a Castilian gentleman, whose story you shall hear."